Plastic Bag

The plastic bag almost ruins my hour and a half away from it all. Sitting on the boardwalk, getting a years worth of vitamin D on my hands and face, along it sidles beside me on the bench, sneaky, from a distance, gentle puff by gentle sunny puff of warm breeze encourages it up to me, until it's almost bumped into me, until people will think I own it, I'm with it. But I'm not. I am saved by the idea of pushing it's edges into the cracks on the bench, far enough away from me that I could get up and leave without it, with no shame, and no fear that it would take off into the river and start strangling ducks, enrobe itself around the floating beercans or the tennis ball, no fear that someone would think I left it there. Of course I bring it with me when I leave. Dutifully drop it into the public bin, just seconds behind the man who deposits an empty cider can - he walks on in front of me, two of us dutiful public spirited folk bobbing along the wooden path, warm in the sun, he steps undramatically, matter of factly, around the the large public flower box to have a pee. I don't follow him there, but continue on my journey...